


Custom Made in Paris//The Faded Imprint of a Ship

by deutschtard



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:03:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschtard/pseuds/deutschtard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has confessed to Dr. Lecter that he felt as though he were doing the same things at the same time as the Minnesota Shrike.<br/>Perhaps that is not the only person with whom he feels such a connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Custom Made in Paris//The Faded Imprint of a Ship

     His clothes are laid in the bedroom, by the dressing table. They are folded, but ready to be worn. The soiled clothing is also folded, placed gently into its respective hampers.  There is a media player on the vanity, Bach echoes melodically throughout the large bathroom. He stands there, nude, for just a moment, his fingers curving gracious arcs in tune to the sounds.

     His clothes are folded, but they still sit in the dresser. They may or may not be worn; there is not a specific piece that is more important than the other. The soiled clothing is wadded up and thrown into the hamper in the corner, a large wooden box placed atop it to keep the dogs out. The room is silent; the vanity is in immaculate order. He places his hand on the vanity to ensure that it is still there, that he is still there, and he pulls off his glasses, leaving them before turning the water on.

     The water is turned on, the electronic dial turned to precisely the temperature he desires. When steam has begun to fog up the glass door, he steps in, closing it silently behind him, Bach serenading him into the torrent of water. The pressure is strong; it runs the thin line between massage and pain. The heat is hot enough to rinse away the tiresome elements of the day, turning his flesh pink quickly. He reaches for his shampoo, special ordered from a salon in Paris, and squeezes the exact amount into his hand. He lathers slowly, eyes open, facing the shower head.

     The water takes a while to heat up, the pipes are not new, and the water heater only holds so much. He pulls the second-hand curtain closed and immerses himself in the water. The rush of the liquid by his ears drowns out the screams that followed him home. He turns the hot knob higher, the water scalding him, and he stands there, motionless. He does not count the seconds, he simply lets everything wash away, wills it to fall with the water and leave through the drain. It does not work.

     Gracefully, he turns and arches his face upwards, letting the suds flow down his back, rinsing thoroughly. He follows it with the companion conditioner, though this he leaves in. Turning again, his hand curls around the specially made body wash, and he squeezes the exact amount into his palm again, lathering it across his skin elegantly. The scent of lilies reminds him of his aunt, the Japanese bath at his Uncle’s home.  The music moves to its second movement, the speed increasing. His scrubbing catches up, his arm moves along with the beat as he soaps every inch of himself, letting his eyes close as the music transports him.

     The blistering heat intensifies as his skin becomes raw. He turns the temperature down to luke-warm, squirting his 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner on top of his head, lathering it quickly, turning his head to the floor and letting the dirt wash away. The screams stay in his mind, undeterred by the cleansing. He grabs soap with a faded imprint of a ship on it, scrubbing everything with a fingernail brush, ensuring the utmost cleanliness. He feels small bits of the day coming away with the small bits of his skin he scrubs away. He only feels mildly better.

     After a precise amount of time, he scrubs himself clean with an expensive loofah, rinsing it thoroughly as the fourth and final movement of the piece begins, harkening back to the first movement. He turns again, letting his head face the sky as he washes the conditioner out. The water is turned off, and he begins drying himself carefully, gently, ensuring he removes every drop. He walks over to the vanity and takes out lotion, coating himself with a thin layer that his skin soaks up like hungry dogs being given sausage. He is careful as he combs his hair, letting it rest in its proper place as he walks to the dressing table and dresses. Though they are only pajamas, he looks elegant. He retires to his chair with a psychology book, the Bach having changed to a Mozart opera.

     He stays under the hot water as long as he dares; he scrubs as long as he can. When he first spots a bit of blood from where he scrubbed too hard, that is when he stops. He rinses himself off under water now gone cold, and he dries himself off haphazardly. He knows he will not stay dry for long. He grabs the first pair of underwear and white t-shirt his hands land on, and he dresses hastily, turning off the light as though he is still a child, running to the bed, afraid of monsters grabbing at his ankles in the lack of light. As he settles under the covers, he hears a few bars of Mozart, and his eyes open wide. No longer is he fixated on Garret Jacob Hobbs. The habits of the only man who seems to understand, his only friend, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, have begun to take root in the corner of his mind. He does not set an alarm. He knows he will wake up and need another shower in the morning. There are always other horrors to see. They will not leave him alone, no matter how hard he scrubs.

     Midway through a sentence in the book, he stops, stares straight ahead as though someone is sitting across from him. The soprano hits the high note in her aria, and his lip quirks slightly. He closes the book, turns off the reading lamp, and makes his way across the room with no haste. The covers are as high quality as everything else in his home, and as he settles onto his back, he thinks about Agent Will Graham, and he wonders what meal he should next offer his good friend. There is a spleen in the refrigerator that will go bad if he does not use it soon. He thinks of a splendid stew dish that would be perfect as his eyes close and he sleeps a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not meant to be a Hannibal/Will shipping piece, simply a character study about how they're both on each other's minds, and how their relationship has become such an important and interwoven one, how they have changed each other, how they have learned about each other without necessarily meaning to.


End file.
